


I Know You Want It in the Worst Way

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, happy birthday friends!, no seriously just smutlets in here, please read responsibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6498106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  a collection of smutty ficlets written as gifts for friends. Title is a lyric from Rihanna's Birthday Cake, because I'm a giant dork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Give It to Me Like a Gift

**Author's Note:**

> So like a million years ago (or nearly a month ago – whatever!), I told@darlinginmyway that I would write her a birthday smutlet. Uh, yeah, so happy SUPER LATE birthday! ;) 
> 
> NOTE: Title from Snoop Dogg’s Gangsta Luv, which is alllll about sexing someone up right. Seems thematically appropriate! Ahoy, smut – please read responsibly.

 

 

The piano bar is surprisingly crowded, full of friendly Amalfi coast locals and giddy tourists doing their best to soak in all the Italian culture they can. Felicity has seen Rome and the Mediterranean and some ancient Roman ruins, and she’s loved every moment, every experience. But the thing she’s most interested in right now is not the musicians or the sommeliers or the warm summer air on her skin.

No, Felicity is preoccupied with Oliver -- with getting her hands on him and feeling his on her.

They’d finished eating at least an hour ago, moving to the bar to drink more lush red wine, and she’s feeling happy and tipsy. Her body sways towards him of its own accord, and absolutely everything is making her smile. She takes advantage of the dim lighting and crowd to ease even closer to Oliver, running her palm along his back.

“Felicity,” he murmurs, his tone a half-hearted warning. Like it really _bothers_  him when she gets handsy. Psssh.

Stubbornly, she presses against him, grinning to herself when she hears his groan. Oliver’s hand slips lower on her waist, the hard heat of his body warming her even through the thin cotton of her light blue sundress. Her whole body tightens in reaction, heating up for him. Like always.

It’s been four months with Oliver, and Felicity is still pretty addicted to him. And by “him” she means _him_ , of course -- the kind-hearted, entirely too selfless man who took it upon himself to save an entire city. But also, she means _having_  him -- running her hands all over his _ridiculous_  body, licking the hard ridges of his abdomen, sinking down onto him until he’s buried deep inside of her.

Totally. Addicted.

It’s not quite the hot, ever-present _need_  of the first month, when a mere look or glancing touch could snowball into an hours-long sex-fest in their latest cabin or hotel room or, occasionally, the Porsche. (In addition to being a diligent and talented lover, Oliver is _surprisingly_  flexible with the right incentive.)

But despite having _had_  him so many times, in so many ways, the pull between them is still a constant, low-level hum. It’s just that now that they don’t go from 0-60 with just a look -- or at least they don’t _always_  immediately tear each other’s clothes off. And as a result of their slightly-more-controllable desire, she’s learning just how much fun it is to tease Oliver.

Turns out, the man who told her that he loved her (sort of twice?) and walked away for almost a year, allowing himself nothing more than that one kiss for months and months? That guy? Has _no_ patience when it comes to having her now.

Felicity is woman enough to admit his insatiable need for her is an ego boost. And, yes, her need for him is basically a universal invariant, so it’s not like it’s one-sided, but it’s still nice to see that flush on his cheeks, the way his nostrils flare a little, and the dark blue of his eyes when he’s wildly turned on.

Like now, for instance.

All the telltale signs are there, plus he’s practically vibrating with tension, holding himself stock still against her.

She turns slightly towards him, so her breasts are against his ribcage and he lets out a gust of air. She slips her free hand down his back and across his ass, tugging his hips a little closer to her, and it makes him groan.

She knows that he’s _this close_  to dragging her back to their hotel.

Which is right across the little street, actually, so she would be totally fine with that. But --  _stubbornly_  -- he doesn’t move, just lets his hand rest heavy on the small of her back as he takes a rather desperate sip of wine.

Felicity gets distracted by the movement of his throat when he swallows; she leans up and licks a stripe along his neck, humming happily at the slightly salty taste of him. His fingers dig into her back, squeezing her against his hip, and she smiles into his skin. Then she loops her arms around his neck and just drapes herself against him, leaning into his solidness, arching in unmistakable invitation.

When he does nothing other than down the rest of his wine in reaction, she nips at his throat, pulling a little gasp from him, then soothes him with her mouth. His stubble rasps against her tongue, and the sensation makes her laugh.

That seems to be what breaks him.

“C’mon,” he orders, setting his wine glass on the bar with a decisive clank. It takes him a moment to unwrap her from him, but he leans in and murmurs in her ear, his voice low, his breath hot against her skin. “I need you.”

Now Felicity is the one tugging on Oliver’s hand, urging him toward the door. They’re barely aware of the crowd around them, pre-occupied with exchanging heated gazes as they go. When they spill out into the warm night air, Oliver immediately backs her against the stucco wall to devour her with insistent kisses.

Felicity’s hands are on Oliver’s ass, and his fingers are digging into her thigh, urging her to wrap it around his hip. There’s no space between them, and she’s honestly not sure what would’ve happened right there in the street if a group of revelers didn’t wander closer and start cat-calling them.

Breathing hard, Oliver pulls back, easing her leg down even as he trails his fingers up the skin of her thigh, beneath her skirt. When Felicity blinks her eyes open, he’s gazing down at her, mouth open, pupils dilated. Her arousal dials up another notch; she feels drunker on Oliver than she ever has on liquor.

She leans into him before moving, dragging her body against his as she presses past him. Her hand skims low across his abdomen when she steps away, and he groans. He spins to follow, his arms coming around her from behind as he tries to speed her up.

It’s awkward, walking with him very nearly plastered to her back, but on the other hand, his hot, hard body is _plastered to her back_ , which feels delightful. And it’s clear he’s using her to block anyone’s view of his erection, which gives her a warm, tipsy smug feeling.

She’s paying very little attention to anything but the feel of him against her, but the sudden change in volume from dozens of voices excitedly talking to a low murmur of conversation as they stumble through the archway into the large courtyard at their hotel registers. Through her haze of wine and lust, she manages to focus, noticing the dinner crowd from earlier has dissipated, leaving only a few groups of people seated at the tables nursing wine. Only one or two even seem to notice Oliver and Felicity’s arrival.

“C’mon.” Felicity tugs Oliver along, skirting along the edge of the courtyard, moving toward the smaller stairwell in the back. She is burning for him, desperate for him, and they need to get somewhere sex-able really, _really_  fast.

There aren’t many lights in the courtyard, just candles on the tables in the middle, so the shadows along the wall are deep. When they draw even with a particularly dim alcove, partially obscured by a decorative trellis with a considerable amount of greenery twined on it, Oliver’s hand lands on her hip and he angles her into the space, his huge frame blocking out most of the light.

“Oliver, what--?”

He’s kissing her desperately, leaning closer, backing her into the wall until the stucco scratches along her back. Warm palms land on her thighs, trailing up under her skirt, and Felicity whimpers into his mouth. She forgets her confusion, forgets that they’re not all that well hidden from random strangers, forgets  _everything_  that isn’t how much she loves Oliver’s hands on her body.

Their kisses are messy and desperate. Felicity doesn’t remember looping her arms around his neck, but she’s got one hand in his hair and the other clutching at his shoulders, fingers digging in, demanding more, more, _more_. She feels wild with lust, unable to stop her body from twisting and shifting, desperate for pressure, for rhythm, for release.

“Felicity,” Oliver mutters, licking his way down her throat, nipping at her skin until she gasps. “Please,” he begs, his voice low and breathy. His fingers curl around the edges of her panties, dragging them down an inch before he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

She’s a little bit drunk, yes, but she’s not drunk enough for semi-public sex, is she? Is _he_ drunk enough for this? There are two dozen people drinking wine and laughing within shouting distance, and if anyone happens to wander over to this side of the courtyard, they’ll see Oliver and Felicity in their alcove, too desperate for each other to make it up two flights of stairs to their room.

Felicity is surprised to find that the thought makes her even hotter. Yeah, she really, really wants this. Wants _him_. Right here, right now. The possibility of getting caught adds a desperate edge to her desire.

Her hands drop to his waistband even as she nods. He makes a sexy, guttural noise and yanks on her panties. She’s fumbling with the fly of his jeans, effectively trapping him in place, so he only gets her underwear halfway off.

Once she gets his zipper down, she reaches into his boxer briefs and cups him. He’s hot and pleasingly hard in her hand. His fingers clench into the skin of her thighs in reaction to her touch, her panties all but forgotten. But he’s gotten them far enough that with a wriggle and a shimmy, they drop to the ground.

Felicity pauses, and for one moment, they both look down at the pink panties around her ankles. Something about the image is unbearably hot -- a testament to how wildly the passion between them burns.

Then Oliver has has hands on her ass and he’s lifting her up. She feels the slip of fabric slide over her foot and drop to the ground as she wraps her legs around Oliver’s waist. “So hot,” he groans, pressing her hard into the wall. “So beautiful, Felicity.” He shifts one hand until he can reach between her legs, his fingers slipping against her, finding her wet and ready.

“Yes,” Felicity whispers, making an effort to keep her voice down even as she bucks against him, urging him one as his fingers seek her clit, slide lower to her entrance. “Please, Oliver, I can’t wait.”

He kisses her, then, hard and messy, swallowing down the whimper she makes when the head of his cock presses into her. She tilts her hips, urging him on, and Oliver slams home. There’s a long moment of stillness, the only sound between them their heavy breaths and the slide of their lips as they kiss passionately.

Then Oliver adjusts his grip on her ass, shifting even closer, even deeper, and she has to tip her head back and take a gulp of air to deal with how _perfect_  he feels. This right here, this _connection_  is what her body’s been craving all night. She has one arm around his neck, the other tucked around his rib cage, keeping him pressed right up against her, so the only space between their bodies is when he pulls his hips back to thrust back inside.

The stucco scratches her skin as they move together. Her head drops back, banging lightly against the wall, and Oliver’s mouth is on her neck, his tongue teasing up to her ear, seeking out that spot that makes her keen. She tries to hold it in, tipping her face closer, burying her mouth against the warm, soft cotton of his t-shirt.

She’s trying so hard to stay quiet, but she’s fast losing her awareness of why she cares, of why she’s even trying to suppress all of this _amazingness_  he’s making her feel.

God, his hips are dangerous, fucking into her with a devastatingly precise rhythm, ceaselessly building her arousal. His breath skates across the skin of her throat in hot, heavy puffs, timed with his thrusts, providing the rhythm to her own spiraling desire.

One moment, she’s full of that anticipatory tension, and the next her orgasm hits. Her body arches against his, her head drops back, and she just barely chokes back her groan. Ecstasy hits her in slow waves, and she circles her hips mindlessly to draw it out.

Oliver never pauses, never slows, and when she comes back to herself, laughing softly and breathing hard, she can tell how close to the edge he is. His rhythm is fast and faltering, his palms gripping her ass hard, his whole body pinning her to the wall.

“Felicity,” he manages. It’s a request, a plea.

“Come for me, Oliver,” she commands, because she knows he loves when she bosses him around during sex. Felicity shifts her legs up, spreading just a little bit more, letting him in just a little deeper. When he moans in reaction, she tilts her chin down to nip at his collarbone. Just the way he likes.

Works like a charm, as Oliver jerks into her with a gasp, shaking and grinding against her as he comes inside of her. He drops his forehead to her shoulder, pressing sloppy, uncoordinated kisses to her skin. “Love you.”

They stay like that, plastered together, with Oliver still inside of her for several long moments. Eventually, their breathing steadies, and Oliver straightens enough to capture her mouth with his, kissing her thoroughly.

When he pulls back, he smiles lazily at her. She grins right back. “Love you, too.”

He sighs when he shifts, holding her in place so he can pull out, then helping her back to her feet. Before she can do more than smooth her hopelessly wrinkled skirt back down, there’s the distinct sound of footsteps approaching. Oliver shifts closer to her, yanking his pants back up with a hiss, fumbling a bit with the zipper.

An older couple on their way to the back stairwell notices them and pauses, giving them a friendly greeting in Italian. Oliver nods back, “Good evening.”

The woman pushes her gorgeous silvery curls behind her ear, her eyes twinkling as she pauses to study them. “Yes,” she says in heavily accented English, “I see it has been good to you.” She winks at Felicity and then tugs her companion along, murmuring to him in Italian, drawing a low chuckle from the man.

Puzzled, Felicity turns back to Oliver. “What is she--?”

But Oliver is straightening back up from a quick crouch, her bright pink panties dangling from his fingers. “I think she meant this,” he says dryly. _Smugly_ , even.

Felicity is torn between embarrassment and a strange kind of prideful satisfaction. Her cheeks are warm, but she shrugs it off and reaches for her panties. She frowns at Oliver when he holds them out of her reach with a smirk. “What are you doing? Give me--”

“Oh, no,” he interrupts, tucking them in his back pocket. “These are mine now. If you think I’m not keeping a souvenir of _that_ , you’re crazy.”

-30-


	2. Happy birthday, Sus!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @hannasus said: How about some post-breakup make-up sex? Can either be temporary hate sex or tender reconciliation sex, your choice. :D
> 
> So, yeah. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! There is late S4 (or possibly post-S4) SMUT beneath the cut, so please read responsibly! Also, I’ve had too much wine to edit appropriately, so apologies in advance! ;)

 

 

Light streams through the high windows as Oliver blinks awake. He feels strangely... good. Like he slept more than a few hours. He feels _rested_ , for the first time in two months, and it comes back to him in a rush.

 _Felicity_.

Of course, Felicity is responsible for this new calm contentment. Because they’d reconciled on the edge of crisis, and then last night she’d come _home_  To the loft, to their bed, to _him_. And they’d tumbled into bed for sex and comfort, desperate and familiar all at once.

He’d drifted off with his face pressed against her neck, which explains the deep, peaceful sleep.

Smiling at the memory, he shifts, pushing the blankets down, turning to her side of the bed -- which is empty.

A bolt of panic hits – what if she left? What if she changed her mind about him again? Or --  _God_  -- what if his memory of her body beneath his last night is just a dream, like the dozens of others he’s had the past few months?

Because he’s had those dreams; he’s had so many of them. Dreams where she smiled at him like she loved him, dreams where she melted under his touch, dreams where she whispered her love for him. And then he’d wake up to a cold bed, alone in the stillness of the loft that had been their home. And he’d have to breathe through it, even though he’d rather hide under the covers, trying to recapture the warm light of his dreams, of _her_.

What if their reconciliation was another wistful dream, and this is the same lonely reality?

He’s half-sitting, his weight on his elbow, staring at her side of the bed, dread pooling in his gut.

Because now that he’s awake, now that he’s _looking_ , there’s no sign of her -- no glasses on the nightstand, no tablet, no glass of water. His memory of making love to her last night is _so vivid_ , but there’s no evidence that it’s anything but a fantasy. Would his subconscious really be that cruel?

Of course it would. Of _course_  it would. A flare of agony leaves Oliver’s chest hollow and aching, and he closes his eyes for a long moment.

That’s when he hears it -- the soft slide of a footstep on the stairs. He stills, suddenly and brutally hopeful.

And then Felicity tiptoes into the bedroom, a ridiculously large mug of coffee in one hand, and a plate in the other. Her glasses are on, her hair pulled into a sloppy bun, and she’s wearing his t-shirt and mismatched fuzzy socks -- one pink, one turquoise. She’s got a soft smile on her face, though her attention is on carrying the plate and the mug.

Oliver lets his breath out in a rush, all of his panic, all of his fear dissipating at the sight of this beautiful woman, his future wife, sneaking back to bed with food and coffee.

When she sees that he’s awake, Felicity stops short and actually stomps her foot. “Oh, come on,” she says. “You couldn’t stay asleep _five more minutes_ , Oliver? I thought I sexed you up real good last night.”

The warm bubble in his chest bursts into laughter, because she is just so _cute_. He sits all the way up, beckoning her forward. “You did,” he reassures her, reaching for the mug of coffee as she reaches the side of the bed. Oliver shifts closer, invading her side of the bed. “C’mere.”

She lets him take her hand and pull her to the edge of the bed, but she holds the plate out of reach. “I made pancakes!” she announces, her tone so bright that he is immediately suspicious. Oliver tilts his head in question and she makes a disgruntled noise and climbs onto the bed with her plate of... toast. “I didn’t say I made them _successfully_ ,” she says, still grumpy as he grins at her. “But I did  _not_  set the smoke detector off this time, so...” She gives a fist pump. “Success!”

“I love you,” Oliver tells her, snagging a piece of toast that is really more like warm-ish bread, but he takes a big bite anyway, following it up with a hit of her coffee, despite her protests.

“Hey, that is for _me_!” She makes grabby hands, but doesn’t risk actually grabbing for the mug -- he knows it’s only because she won’t risk spilling a drop. And she filled it very, very full.

“Felicity,” he says, his voice low and suggestive. “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t want toast right now.”

“I know,” she pouts. “You stole my _coffee_  instead. Do you not remember my pre-caffeinated state? It’s not pretty, Oliver.”

He just grins at her, so full of love and joy that he can’t find words for it, and leans past her to set the mug down on the nightstand. “I don’t want coffee either.”

Her eyes spark with understanding and desire, but she purses her lips. “If you don’t want it, then give it back to me.”

In answer, he gently tugs the plate away from her and sets it down, too. Then he leans into her, gently cupping her face in his hands, keeping his gaze on her until they’re just inches from each other. “This is all I want,” he whispers, then leans in to kiss her.

She responds eagerly, pressing forward, her hands landing on his chest, warm against his naked skin. He leans back slowly and she moves with him, sliding partway on top of him as he falls back into the pillows.

Oliver kisses her slow and deep, his hands drifting down her back in slow, soothing motions. Because he wants her desperately, but he wants to take his time. Last night, they were frantic to reconnect -- all grasping hands and gasping breaths. Today he wants to savor this woman in the early morning light, in this bed that’s _theirs_  again.

“Oliver,” she whispers, breaking off the kiss, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He loves her weight atop him, loves the feel of her breasts against him, a warm layer of cotton all that’s between them.

“Hold onto me,” he instructs, shifting beneath her. He wraps his arms around her, cradling her against his body, and rolls them over. He keeps most of his weight on his elbows, tucking her beneath him, his thigh between hers.

Felicity wriggles happily beneath him, lifting a hand to flip some stray hair out of her face as she grins up at him. “I love you,” she says, radiating honesty and contentment, and it’s almost too much. She’s so beautiful, her eyes bright as she meets his gaze.

“I love you,” he answers, and then he kisses her again, because he can’t not. He shifts carefully, moving between her legs, which she parts. She brings her knees up to his his rib cage, those fuzzy socks tickling along his thighs. He’s naked and hard against her, and the feel of her wet and ready beneath him has him groaning and grinding into her.

Felicity moans, tightening her thighs around him, tilting her hips up for more pressure, and it’s so good that he has to break off the kiss to try to remember how to breathe.

He drops his mouth to her neck, licking and sucking his favorite spot. His nose is in her hair, and he smells the citrus of her shampoo and, underneath it, the faded notes of her perfume. He smells _Felicity_.

Her hands slip down his back, fingers digging into his lower back, the top of his ass, urging him to rock against her. Oliver nearly reconsiders his decision to take this slow and tender. Reluctantly, he moves down, sliding the oversized t-shirt up her body so he can lick and suck at her breasts.

“Where are you going?” she whines, but her hands don’t stop moving -- she’s got one palm on his shoulder, and she’s dragging the fingertips of her other hand so, so lightly along all the skin she can reach -- his back, his bicep, his neck. Her warm, wet center is pressed against his abs.

Oliver nips at the skin just below her breasts, pulling a gasp from her. “Patience,” he whispers into her skin. She grumbles something inaudible, but Oliver has reached one of her scars -- the exit wound from the bullet that damaged her spine. It’s an irregular oval of raised, slightly shiny flesh, and he kisses it so, so softly.

The rest of her scars are mostly along her spine, and he presses one hand between the mattress and her body, smoothing his fingers along her back and urging her to arch up into his mouth.

“Oh, your hands,” she murmurs, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders, digging in for purchase as she moves beneath him. She’s trying to lift her hips, get some friction, but he lets the weight of his torso rest heavy against her, holding her slight frame still.

Slowly, slowly, Oliver drags the fingertips of his free hand down her side, skimming across her ribs until she shivers. “Missed you so much,” he says, his words muffled by her warm skin.

“Missed you, too,” Felicity answers, and she’s breathing hard now, her legs shifting against his torso. “So much, Oliver.”

“What do you want?” he asks.

“ _You_ ,” she answers, pressing her hands hard against him. “Don’t care how. Just  _you_.”

He smiles into her skin, shifting lower, moving first one shoulder, than the other between her legs. Felicity’s hands are in his hair now, her hips moving restlessly, impatient for his mouth. “Shhhh,” he soothes her, running his palm along the warm, soft skin of her inner thigh, urging her to open for him.

He takes just a moment to gaze up her body. Felicity’s eyes are closed and her mouth open; her chest lifts with each deep, heavy breath she takes. His t-shirt is twisted along her torso, covering most of one breast, but below the cotton, her skin is glowing in the sunlight. She looks amazing against the dark grey sheets, and he takes a jagged breath when he lets himself remember how long it’s been since she was here, how _close_  he’d come to losing this forever.

Felicity’s eyes open, and she looks down at him. She lifts up onto one elbow, her hand drifting down to his cheek. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” she says, because she knows him better than he knows himself. It’s the exact reassurance he needs.

Oliver lets his fingers drift to her center, watching her face as she reacts to his touch. He finds her clit, stroking it slow and gentle, and she presses herself against his hand. Her face is flushed, her eyes dropping shut as she tilts her head back. “Oh, _definitely_  not going anywhere,” she manages. His mouth is inches from her when he laughs in response, and she collapses onto her back with a strangled, “Oh, God. I have missed _this_.”

Oliver kisses her pussy, soft and slow, one hand on her hip, the other still bracing her thigh open. He drags his tongue along her sensitive skin, flicking it against her clit once, twice, grinning as she jerks in reaction.

Then he lifts his head. “Tell me what you want, Felicity.”

“You,” she repeats. “I just -- I want you, Oliver. Your hands, your mouth, just-- _You_.”

“Always,” he promises, and then he lowers his mouth to her again, intent on bringing her off at least twice before he breaks. He moans at her familiar taste, pressing harder, fucking her with his tongue until she’s lifting her hips with his rhythm.

“Feels so good,” she tells him. “So good.”

Then he eases back, and she grumbles something unintelligible. He licks his lips. “Patience.” Before she can respond, he’s got his tongue on her clit, circling the way she likes. He reads the pitch of her breath, the trembling of her thighs to drive her higher and higher.

She’s so responsive, so gorgeous beneath his mouth that Oliver has to press his hips into the bed. When she arches her back and sucks in a breath, he’s very, very close to coming into the sheets without even touching himself. Her body is flushed with arousal, warm and achingly familiar beneath his hands.

He has missed this _so_  much; Oliver has always been terrible at expressing his emotions with words, but this? This he can do. He can show her with his body. He can bring her to orgasm over and over. He will eat her out for hours. _Gladly_.

“Oliver,” she gasps, her fingers in his hair, holding him to her. “Please, Oliver, you-- It’s--  _So good_.”

He drags his fingers slowly, slowly up her thigh, never slowing the pace of his tongue against her clit. When he finally reaches her pussy, he slips two fingers inside, rotating his hand, pressing his fingertips where she needs him. He remembers exactly what her body needs, and he gives it to her -- tongue and lips and fingers, moving in complementary rhythms.

“Oliver, _Oliver_!”

And then she’s coming around his thrusting fingers, her hips jerking beneath him. Oliver presses the flat of his tongue against her clit, giving her pressure as she writhes through the heat of her orgasm.

When she melts into the bed, he eases off, pulling his fingers from her and shifting up to rest his chin on her hipbone. She’s still breathing hard, and it does great things for her breasts, flushed with her arousal. Oliver rubs a hand along her waist, helping her come back down, and he can’t help but grin at her when she starts to laugh. “Something funny?” he asks.

Felicity opens her eyes, reaching down her body and making grabby hands at him. He is helpless to refuse her anything, and so he crawls up her body, settling in the cradle of her thighs with a heartfelt groan. And a slow grind of his cock against her. He doesn’t repeat his question, just quirks an eyebrow at her.

She reaches up, cradling his cheeks and urging him closer for a kiss. “I missed this mouth,” she tells him, swallowing his answering laugh with a kiss.

When he pulls back, he’s breathing hard and he’s hard as a fucking rock. He tries for a teasing tone when he asks, “Is that all you missed.”

“Well, it’s a _very_  talented mouth.” Felicity’s saucy grin softens, and she blinks rapidly. “I missed all of you,” she answers, genuinely.

It’s Oliver’s turn to be nearly overcome with emotion. But before he can react, she slips a hand between their bodies, wrapping her fingers around his cock. Oliver groans, dropping his forehead to hers.

“Missed _this_ ,” Felicity assures him with a little smirk. And then she’s guiding him to her entrance, and her fuzzy socks are pressed against his ass, and he slides home with a groan.

“Felicity,” he gasps, holding himself still in her wet heat. “Felicity, I love you so much.”

She beams at him as she loops her arms around his neck, pulling him close until their chests are pressed together. She kisses him, soft and slow, and then pulls back. “Show me,” she orders.

So he does.

-30-


	3. happy birthday to Mer!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s take a trip back to the glory of season 3.5 (aka SEXING ACROSS AMERICA)… PWP warning.

 

Felicity knows that spending time away from your partner is healthy.

She actually feels some relief the first time Oliver kisses her goodbye and goes out for a long run while she runs a bubblebath. And not _just_  because that fancy boutique hotel has _killer_ jets in the tub.

She gets it. She enjoys having time to herself, time to think about things other than how freaking much she love this man who’s been hers for nearly two months. (Or more than two years, if you believe him; she mostly doesn’t.) It’s also good to have some time for embarrassing stuff like important hair removal and maintenance activities, because they’re spending _a lot_  of time together, much of it while totally naked, and a girl just likes to keep everything handled.

So yeah. She’s in favor of _me time_  as a general principle.

And it doesn’t bother her that Oliver is taking longer and longer morning runs, which means spending more time away from her. No, the thing that concerns her is new; it’s the strange set of his mouth when he returns from his runs the last couple days, the extra tension across his shoulders that doesn’t melt away even beneath her touch.

It’s not _worrying_  her, necessarily, it’s just... a little bit... maybe bothering her a smidge.

Because the free, relieved, open, _happy_  man she’d driven away from Starling with? He was a revelation. He’s _been_  a revelation through most of their time away together -- kind and giving and, God, really generous in bed. But mostly, she’s been amazed to see this _happiness_  in his face.

She loves Oliver -- all of him, even the parts that drive her crazy. It’s not that she only wants him if he’s a ray of sunshine – and really until the last couple months, he’s only ever been a grumpy ray of reluctant sunshine and she’s loved him anyway. It’s that she wants him to be comfortable with _all_ sides of himself. And that includes the man who takes pleasure in, well, the simple pleasure of walking down sidewalks, his hand in hers, on their way to a random diner for some french fries. That includes the man who pulled an immediate u-turn when he saw a sign for an alpaca farm and spent two hours grinning at the strangely adorable herd. And it most definitely includes the man who arrived back to their hotel room in Sedona with the requested tampons plus a bottle of bright aquamarine nail polish that he thought might make her feel better.

Those moments of what, for Oliver, pass as carefree -- she misses them. And thinking about why his happiness might be fading; about why maybe being away with her _isn’t_  what he really needs right now, well, she’s getting herself a little bit wound up. Emotionally speaking.

When he comes back from a long run, his tank top stuck to his body with sweat and a carefully blank look on his face, Felicity speaks without thinking.

“Are you not happy with me?”

Oliver stands stock still in the middle of the hotel room and blinks at her. “What?”

“Not like, _are you displeased with me_ ,” Felicity corrects, the words tumbling out now, “in the sense of me doing something silly that pissed you off.”

“Okay,” Oliver answers slowly. “I’m not. But then I’m not sure what you’re asking?”

Her nerves creep up, strangling her voice until she sounds like a caricature of herself. “I mean, are you not happy anymore? Here. With me. On this whole running-away-from-our-lives adventure, because if you are that’s--”

“No,” he interrupts, and then he moves so quickly that he’s standing in front of her before she realizes it, and, God, she loves when he’s all damp and sweaty, and she really wants to touch him, but she’s feeling so off-balance that she’s not sure if she should. She’s not sure if he wants her to? “Felicity, where is this coming from?”

“I just -- I think time apart is good,” she blurts out, heart pounding. Because she needs him to know it’s not that she doesn’t want him to have his Oliver time, it’s just that she is worried that it’s _more_  than just that.

Before she can gather the nerve to ask him, point blank, whether he wants her anymore, Oliver is stumbling backwards, and the look on his face is _awful_ , like he’s just been gutted. “Okay,” he says. “Felicity, that’s -- if that’s what you want.”

She frowns, not understanding what he’s talking about until she plays back her last words. “No!” She lurches forward, reaching for him, tugging on his arm until he meets her eyes. “I’m not saying time apart like, _time apart_ , Oliver. No, not-- that’s not what--”

“You’re not?” he breathes.

“No.” Felicity shakes her head for good measure, which just reminds her that her hair is a total, bedhead-y mess. Which is _so_  not important right now. “No, I thought you might want some–”

“I don’t,” he interrupts, his voice rough. He’s watching her desperately, like she might disappear if he looks away. “I’ve been thinking about -- about some of the choices I made. Choices I regret. And the running, it helps, but that’s not-- I don’t want _anything_ that doesn’t involve you.” Before she can even process her relief, he leans in and kisses her like he’s just come back from war, instead of a lengthy jog. He hauls her up against his broad, damp chest and hugs her almost uncomfortably tightly. “I don’t want time apart,” he repeats, pressing kisses along her jawbone. “God, you _scared_  me.”

Felicity wants to reassure him, to explain, to find words to make her mess of thoughts make sense, but Oliver has gone from 0 to 100, and she can’t really think right now. Which is totally fine, because he’s kissing her again, and putting everything into it, and she is giving it back to him. She wraps her arms tight around his neck, grinning at the way her skin slides against the dampness of his. Mmmm, he’s sweaty, and it is _working_  for her.

His hands are on her back, her ass, her shoulder, tugging her closer, squeezing, and she is effectively clinging to him like a spider monkey. Which is… an unsexy image, but she doesn’t care very much once he gets one hand under her to hold her up. She tightens her thighs around his hips, and she can feel movement but can’t be bothered to pay attention to anything but the hot scrape of his stubble against her cheek, the slide of his tongue against hers.

When he tears his mouth away, she opens hazy eyes to find him grinning down at her. “Let go,” he orders.

She does, shifting in anticipation of him putting her down. Instead, he takes another step, right up to the edge of the bed, and basically _flings_  her onto it.

It shouldn’t be sexy. She actually _bounces_  and emits a high-pitched yelp; she’ll remember later the ominous cracking noise from somewhere beneath her. But before she can react – before she can laugh or roll her eyes or yell at him for tossing her around like a sack of potatoes -- Oliver tugs his sweat-dampened shirt off, then pushes his shorts off, keeping her pinned in place with his heated gaze.

the looks he gives her when he’s intent on having her immediately if not sooner? They’re _lethal_. His eyes lock onto her, and his jaw tightens, and then there’s usually a little lip-licking which is just cruel and unusual punishment when all she wants is that mouth on her skin.

And then Oliver is naked, and crawling up her body like some sort of sex-crazed jaguar -- and why is her brain coming up with all these strange animal-related metaphors right now? Felicity blinks up at him, hovering over her, one knee between her parted thighs.

“I really like when you wear my shirts,” he tells her, shifting his weight to his left arm so he can run his right hand down the lightweight fabric. “I want to rip it off of you,” he confesses, his voice low. “But instead, I’m just gonna do this.” He shoves the shirt up, pooling the material on her torso, and then literally rips her panties off. Which actually kind of stings a little?

But it’s also hot, and making her hotter. “Yeah.” Felicity nods. “Yes. Good plan. I like this--  _Oh_!”

Oliver has two fingers inside of her, pumping slowly, and his thumb on her clit. Her hands scrabble at his shoulders even as her body arches for more, more, more. Her knees drop to the side and he shifts between them, pressing his hard cock against the inside of her thigh. “I want you to come for me,” he murmurs, his face pressed to her chest, nuzzling her breasts through the thin cotton.

“Yes,” she answers. Because _duh_. But also, he likes it when she talks during sex; likes to hear her tell him what to do, and how to do it. “More,” she half-begs, because the pleasure is swamping her, but too slowly. His fingers speed up, curling slightly inside of her, giving her more pressure. “That’s -- yes, just like--” Felicity’s eyes slam shut and her fingers are digging into his flesh, and somehow, she’s already close to orgasm.

They’ve had a lot of sex. A _lot_  of sex. And Oliver has taken great pains to make it good for her every time, to do exactly as she asks, to bring her off repeatedly before he gives into his own desires. He’s never been quite this... overpowering with what he wants and how he wants it. Felicity’s not terribly surprised to find that she likes it.

A lot.

“Oh, your hands,” she mumbles, head shifting from side to side. His hands are so big, so insistent against her; inside her. And her orgasm is right there; it’s so close she can taste it.

Oliver orders in a low, rough voice, “Come.” And then his lips close over her nipple, and the hot, damp pressure is just enough extra sensation to toss her off the cliff.

She’s moaning and shaking beneath him, her hips thrusting against his hand.

When he pulls his hand away from her, she manages to open her eyes just in time to see him suck his wet fingers with a moan. She’s still breathing hard, still massively turned on, and still quaking through the aftershocks when he lines his cock up and pushes into her in one sure stroke.

“Oooooh, yes,” she says, because it feels so good when he’s inside her, with his big, sweaty body hovering over her. She yanks on him until he collapses down against her, skin on skin, close enough for her to lick his salty, sweaty neck.

“Fuck,” he says, practically attacking her mouth with his. Felicity slides her hands down his hard body, cupping his ass and urging him to move.

And he _does_.

It’s not the slow build she’s used to -- no, Oliver is fucking her with hard snaps of his hips. Each thrust hits her deep, and she tilts her hips up for more. He hooks an arm under her knee and presses her leg up, then groans on his next thrust.

The angle changes enough to make her whimper with it, and he doesn’t even pause. Felicity arches under him, reaching up with one hand to brace against the headboard, because he’s moving them up the bed with each heavy thrust. He shoves his free arm beneath her back, curling his hand around her shoulder for leverage, and the way he’s taking what he wants from her is making Felicity’s toes curl.

Oliver lifts his mouth from hers, staring down at her with lust-blown eyes, mouth hanging open as he pants from the exertion. There’s a flush along his chest, and sweat dripping from his body onto hers, and every single thing about this moment is overwhelming in the hottest kind of way.

And then he says, “I want to feel you come, Felicity,” in that demanding, growly tone of his, and she’s _so close_.

She digs her heel into the bed, meeting his thrusts, and then snakes her hand between their bodies. It only takes a couple moments of uncoordinated circles against her clit before she’s coming _hard_  around his cock, making incoherent noises of pleasure as wave after wave crashes over her.

Oliver moans, hammering into her as she writhes, and then he’s coming inside of her with a loud grunt, pulsing his hips against her.

Felicity has never understood _the earth moved_  until now -- there’s a loud crack, and everything shifts abruptly, and when she manages to open her eyes, she’s staring at the wall with a sweaty Oliver half-collapsed on her.

“Fuck,” he says, still breathing hard.

Felicity can still feel the warm flush on her skin, her blood pounding through her on a rush of endorphins. It takes her an embarrassingly long time to realize-- “We broke the _bed_?” she asks, wide-eyed and much more alert all of a sudden.

The bed is _so_ broken, in fact, that they are in danger of sliding down the mattress into a sex-addled heap on the floor. It’s clear one of the legs must’ve snapped clean off during their, uh, exuberance. Felicity is torn between shock and a flood of embarrassment.

Oliver lifts his head from the crook of her neck and gives her the smuggest look in the entire world. “Yup.”

“Yup!” she echoes in this really ridiculous high-pitched voice. “We broke the bed with _sex_  and all you can say is _yup_?”

Nope, actually, _this_  is the smuggest, smirkiest look in the entire world. “Yup,” he repeats, leaning in to kiss her, slow and dirty.

“Oliver!” she admonishes. “This is a _hotel_  room. What are we going to tell them?”

He shrugs. “We’ll tell them to buy higher quality beds.” He raises his voice, talking right over her protests. “In the meantime, this presents certain possibilities.”

Felicity is distracted from her embarrassment by the suggestive quirk of his eyebrow when he says the word _possibilities_. “Oliver, what are you--?”

He shifts, letting gravity take over, sliding down the mattress with her until he lands on his knees with her on his lap, still more lying on the bed than sitting up given the drunken cant of the broken bed. “Possibilities,” he repeats. And then he’s got his hands on her ass, and his tongue in her mouth, and she decides she  _likes_  these possibilities a lot.

-30-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I include a passing reference to them having broken a bed in [a silly Harry Potter-related dialogue fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3577293/chapters/14673202), of all things, and a couple people wanted to read it. So… there it is. ;)


End file.
